Storm Child
by Iceworm
Summary: Derek has thrown Isaac out of his Pack. The young werewolf is alone and friendless on the streets of Beacon Hills at the mercy of a supernatural storm. Perhaps the storm isn't his enemy though.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. This story is a prequel to _On a Night Like This _which I finished in the summer of 2013. In it I wrote about the last 15 minutes of Isaac's journey from Derek's loft until he stood outside Scott's bedroom. This trip must have lasted several hours, however. It occurred to me that the period, between Isaac being thrown out by Derek and arriving on Melissa McCall's front porch, didn't deserve to be a missing scene. Inspired by my fondness for Isaac in Season 4 of TW, I decided that I wanted to write about this night again.

Adrift

Isaac straightens slowly. The crouch is reflex. An automatic response conditioned by the many times his father punctuated his "constructive" criticisms with an object thrown at his head. Shards of glass lie at the boy's feet, the remains of the glass Derek threw at him. He stares at them in disbelief.

When he raises his head, Derek has turned his back to him. Having discarded his useless Beta, Derek has lost interest, forgotten, him. The storm raging outside the loft has drawn his attention back to the window. Isaac doesn't understand the fascination it has for his former Alpha. It's only rain.

Snatching up the duffel at his feet, Isaac walks to the sliding door that is the loft's entrance. Cora's scent hangs in the air of the room but she is hidden, out of sight, somewhere. Her heartbeat is a rapid staccato in his ears that contrasts markedly to the slow, steady beat of Derek's heart. It embarrasses Isaac that she is witnessing his humiliation.

Her familiar scent is different tonight, however. There's a bitter undertone to it that Isaac recognizes. It's an old friend: a scent he knows well, has reeked of often - fear. He shakes his head. Who knew anything frightened Cora Hale. The kid seemed to have had her fear organ removed. Isaac wonders what happened, if it has anything to do with Derek's action; but the boy brushes the thought aside. Derek has made it clear that Isaac is no longer Pack. Whatever problems Derek may have, they're not Isaac's now.

He pulls the door open but the scent of fresh blood causes him to hesitate. Blood trickles down the back of the hand that grips the door's handle. A thick splinter of glass, that hadn't registered until now, is lodged in the back of his hand. He plucks it out. A reminder of him for Derek, he turns and flicks it back into the loft.

The blood flows faster now. He licks the cut. It's strange that the copper taste in his mouth is that of his own blood and not that of an enemy. Isaac steps out into the hallway. He looks back over his shoulder. In the gloom of the room behind him, lit only by the glow from the port and the occasional flash of lightning, Derek stands, a dark, unmoving figure, stiff and remote.

Isaac's hand tightens on the door handle. The cut is closing as he watches. The door slams with a crash of metal on metal. Isaac leans against the door. His palms press against it; his forehead rests on the cold metal. He pushes away and walks slowly to the elevator. It stands open, waiting for him. He closes its doors, and turning to the controls, slams his fist into the button for the first floor. The young wolf slumps wearily against the wall of the elevator car as it jerkily starts its descent. His legs no longer have the strength to support him and he slides to the floor. He sits, arms locked around his knees.

The boy holds out his hand. In the feeble light of the elevator's single bulb, he sees that the wound on his hand has healed. Only a few flakes of dried blood remain. Pink skin shows where the glass cut him. Rubbing his thumb across the spot, there's no pain, not even tenderness.

It's a miracle but tonight he hates that he heals so quickly. He wants a scar. Needs a scar, something he can see and touch; because Isaac Lahey is a fool who never learns, who needs a tangible, permanent reminder that hope isn't for the likes of him. He needs to remember that trust is as much an illusion as love. No one cares because he's worthless. His father was right; he's a fuckup, a biological mistake taking up space. He succeeded in fooling Derek for a while but he figured it out, just as Isaac feared he would. The boy wipes his hand across his eyes.

The elevator groans and creaks as it makes it way to the first floor. The door on the loading dock is open. Gusts of cold, damp wind whistle and shriek into the shaft, shaking the elevator car and its occupant. The boy gives no sign that he notices.

Isaac remains seated after the elevator car thumps to a stop at the bottom of the shaft. Finally, he reaches up and, grabbing the handle of the gate, pulls himself to his feet. He picks up his duffel and pushes open the gate. Shoving the lower door into the floor, the boy steps out onto the loading dock. He drops his duffel, closes the gate, and then reaches for the rope that hangs down from the upper half of the elevator's doors. Grabbing it with both hands he slams the doors together. The shaft echoes with the sound. Derek will know he's gone.

The loading dock is plunged into darkness with the closing of the elevator doors. The last of the bulbs in the ceiling of the dock has burned out. Derek had told him several times to replace the bulbs. But with the level of craziness their world descended into after the arrival of the Alpha Pack, replacing some stupid light bulbs hadn't seemed that important. Until tonight Isaac was sure that Derek wouldn't care. The Derek he thought he knew would have understood why he hadn't gotten to it. Still, with the memory of his father's craziness always with him, Isaac wonders if this last screw-up is what persuaded Derek to kick him out.

It isn't as though the light mattered that much, he thinks. The dock was only kept lighted in case any of their human friends came downtown to the loft. Isaac has observed that Derek doesn't exactly put out a welcome mat for visitors. Unless it was a supernatural emergency, and then what the hell difference did a little light make anyway, no one came downtown to just hang with Derek Hale.

Now, the only light on the dock comes from street lights at either end of the block. As he stands staring into the darkness, Isaac realizes that his werewolf ability to see in the dark does not make the night any friendlier or safer feeling than when he only had human eyes. He wonders if born werewolves feel differently about the night.

Isaac is sure it is not fear that he feels as he stands looking out into the night. Sure, the Alpha Pack could make quick work of him; but he's an Omega now and not worth Deukalion's time. The only other powers in Beacon Hills who could threaten a werewolf like himself, are Scott and the Argents_, pere et fille_. But Isaac knows that Scott wouldn't hurt his worst enemy if he could find a reason not to; and he thinks he doesn't make it onto either Allison's or her Dad's radar as a bad guy. No, not fear. It is a crippling sense of aloneness that envelops him and siphons off his energy and will.

The wind has subsided and the storm clouds over the city have thinned. Stars peek through them. This storm cell has moved east. He can see lightning over the hills. His high school lies in that direction. It's only a temporary lull, however. Isaac can see spider webs of lightning falling out of mountainous clouds that fill the western sky.

Isaac stands paused on the edge of the loading dock. He rocks forward looking west, toward the waterfront. Sinking back on his heels, he swivels and surveys the lights of the office buildings downtown. Beyond them, he knows, are the forested hills of the preserve that mark the eastern limits of Beacon Hills. His Alpha cast him out. He is an Omega, a packless wolf. There is no place for him anywhere.

The warehouses that line the street make it a wind tunnel. Gusts of wind batter him. He squints into the wind. Leaves and trash, the refuse of the city, swirl down the street pushed along by it. Isaac's mouth twists in an ironic smile. This is his sign. The wind will be his guide. He'll surrender to its power and let it blow him where it will. Isaac Lahey will be just one more piece of discarded trash carried along by the storm through the streets of Beacon Hills.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Isaac steps off the dock and lands lightly, knees bent, his left hand touching the ground. He glances up the five feet from the sidewalk to the dock. Cats have nothing on werewolves, he thinks smugly. The brief thrill he gets from this werewolf ability fades as his gaze travels up to the top floor of the warehouse. Straightening, he wipes his hand on his jeans and slings his duffel across his back.

There's rain in the wind. The breaks in the clouds are closing, obscuring the stars. A new storm is rushing toward Beacon Hills. The young werewolf sniffs the air. He sneezes. The west wind is sweeping the sharp odor of ozone into the city. Isaac hunches his shoulders against the force of the wind. He stands at the center of a whirlwind of leaves and urban debris. His lip curls. This storm is fucking insistent. But what better choice does he, a packless wolf, have? The storm can take him where it wants. Losers and fuckups don't have the luxury of options.

Derek's warehouse is a black, looming presence that weighs on him as he walks slowly away. The windows in the loft look west toward the waterfront. Isaac is grateful for this. Derek won't see him slink away into the night.

The promise of rain has turned into steady rain that drenches the young man. Ahead of him a street light carves a small pool of misty, yellow light out of the darkness. There is no nighttime street life in this neighborhood of warehouses, vacant factories, and darkened office buildings. As the young Omega makes his way along the street, lightning illumines it. Gold lettering, announcing the headquarters of a long defunct distillery, blazes to life on a dusty window as he passes. The light fades quickly but the logo of the company, an eye in a pyramid, continues to glow after the street plunges back into darkness.

Isaac looks back over his shoulder as he crosses the street. A glow is still visible through the dark and the rain. The boy shakes his head. Beacon Hills, he thinks. The weirdness never takes a night off. A clap of thunder shakes the street, interrupting this train of thought. The light from the lightning that accompanies it reveals a wall papered in posters advertising a rave happening tonight in the neighborhood.

The boy trudges along, head down, putting one foot in front of another, oblivious to the storm around him. His thoughts are trapped, like a rat on a wheel, in an endless loop. Try as he may to put Derek's betrayal out of his mind, he can't stop thinking about it. The wind suddenly changes direction and a fierce gust staggers him, stopping him in his tracks. He glances up, surprised into an awareness of his surroundings. He stands at the entrance to an alley. Looking around, Isaac recognizes neither the street nor the alley whose black mouth gapes open before him. He's never been here before but he does _know_ this place, he realizes. It calls to his blood. The kanima tore his father to pieces here.

Isaac shivers but pauses for only a moment before pressing on. He doesn't want to think about his father. The night is shitty enough without being reminded that the two most important men in his life betrayed his trust in them. It is too much to deal with tonight.

He's made one decision since he left Derek's loft: to let the wind be his guide. Nothing has changed. He sees no need to hurry – to rush headlong into the arms of whatever fate has in store for him. His clothes were soaked through five minutes after he left the shelter of the dock. He snorts. It isn't as though there is a superlative for soak.

In the distance the street begins to show signs of life. Isaac is entering the seedy neighborhood that separates the city's old warehouse/business district from the new downtown of Beacon Hills. The bars and other businesses that serve the late night crowd are open here. As he walks down the street the sidewalks which, even this late, would normally be filled with life are nearly deserted. The weird series of storms that have swept across the city today have discouraged both the residents of the area's seedy residential hotels and the visitors from better neighborhoods who patronize the establishments in this district from lingering on the streets. The few people on the street scurry from one lighted doorway to another. They pay no attention to one more defeated, street kid looking for a dry place to flop for the night.

Isaac stops under the marquee of an old theater. It is dry here, an oasis of light after the dark streets he's traveled tonight. He glances up and smiles wryly. More lights twinkle overhead in the electric constellations that cover its ceiling than are burned out.

The young man studies the posters displayed in the cases besides the theater's entrance. One announces that this theater is now home to an all topless, all bottomless review. New shows start every hour. A digital clock above the ticket booth is counting down the minutes to the start of the next show.

A heavyset, young man with long hair and thick glasses sits inside the ticket booth. His head is down, all his attention focused on the cell phone he holds in his hand. Isaac can see his thumbs moving furiously as he plays a game. The boy wonders if his fake ID would fool the ticket seller. The man has not raised his head once since Isaac stopped. He probably wouldn't even ask for an ID, Isaac decides. Perhaps he'll come back and try someday.

Isaac turns back to the other posters on display. He smiles as he studies the photographs of the performers. Most of the scantily clad women in them appear to be old enough to be his mother. Maybe he won't come back. But if one of the guys wanted… He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

It is good to be out of the rain and the dark, if only for the moment, he thinks. The wind whirls around him. He shivers and wraps his arms across his chest. Now that he isn't moving, he is aware of the chill his wet clothes and the wind create. He looks around to see if there is somewhere he can stand that is out of the wind.

As he surveys his surroundings he notes that, just as there are few people on the sidewalk, there are few cars on the street tonight. This doesn't seem to be a neighborhood you pass through on your way to somewhere else. It's off the beaten path. People, he supposes, come here with a purpose in mind. They have an itch that needs scratching.

The street is filled with multi-colored pools of light, reflections off the wet pavement of the many neon signs that brighten the street. Isaac watches a red Jaguar slow down across the street from him and stop. He walks to the curb curious. But even with his werewolf vision he can't see the driver through the heavily tinted windows. The car pauses for only a moment before it continues on up the street.

The wind presses insistently against Isaac, urging him to move on. He is turning to leave the shelter of the marquee when the same Jaguar he saw moments ago pulls up to the curb next to him. The passenger window slides silently down and a woman's voice drifts out of its dark interior. "Where are you headed? Can I give you a lift?"

Isaac can see only an arm draped over the passenger seat. The fingers of her hand are long and thin with manicured nails the same shade of red as her car. A heavy gold bracelet adorns her wrist. The young man watches as her index finger traces tiny circles on the black leather of the seatback.

"No, thanks. I'm going…" Isaac gestures vaguely with his hand. "…East."

The boy's curiosity gets the better of him and he drops onto his haunches so he can see into the car. His left hand grips the sports car's door for balance. The leather padding on the door is like butter to his sensitive fingers

Isaac finds it impossible to guess the age of the woman inside. In the dim light of the car's interior, the driver could be anywhere from 30 to 50. Blond hair is set off by a golden tan. Her green eyes are cold and calculating. They study him with an interest she doesn't try to hide. Whatever her age, the woman is hot. An expensive fragrance drifts out into the night air. It causes Isaac's nose to wrinkle.

"Not a problem." She says casually. "I live downtown in the _Essex._" She emphasizes the name of her building as though this information should convey more to Isaac than just a location. Perhaps, he thinks cynically, it's meant to establish the parameters for him of the business deal she's hoping to transact.

She smiles. "I was just on my way home."

Isaac wonders if she thinks he is really that naive. A woman like her doesn't just happen to drive through this neighborhood late at night; and she certainly doesn't stop to talk to street kids.

She gives him a bright smile. "Forgive me but you _look_ like you could use a lift. If it was a contest as to who looked worse, you and a drowned rat, you'd win." But then her voice turns throaty. "Not that the clothes-plastered-to-your-body look is an unattractive one for you." Isaac watches as her hand slides across the leather to the instrument panel between the front seats. She stretches and he can't help but notice the way her emerald green skirt rides up her leg. Her long fingers stroke the large silver dial on the instrument panel.

"You should really get out of those wet clothes though. You'll catch your death." She laughs easily. "I mean, you've got extra clothes in your duffel, right?" At his nod she continues, "Come up to my place. You can take a hot shower, get into dry clothes, and I can have the concierge send something up from room service. After you eat, we can figure out where you want to go from there." She says this offhandedly but Isaac sees nothing casual in the look that accompanies her statement. Isaac says nothing. He only continues to watch her. The woman seems confused by his continued silence.

His stomach chooses that moment to betray him by rumbling loudly. Isaac blushes; he's sure she hears it. It _has, _he realizes_, _been a long time since he ate last.

The woman cocks her head. "You do look a little thin." Having gotten a response from him, just not a verbal one, the woman changes tactics, "There's a diner a couple of blocks from here. Okay food and the best pies in the city. Let me buy you something to eat. No strings."

Isaac pauses before saying softly, "There are always strings."

Her eyes narrow but she rewards him with a thin smile. "Not just a pretty face. I like that." Smiling more broadly, she offers,. "Strings, yes, but ones…" Her hand closes around the silver dial on the console. "You'll enjoy a lot. I promise you."

Isaac hears the increase in her heart rate. Confident of his answer the woman reaches over and moves the briefcase lying on the passenger seat to the rear. The Jaguar's locks click open. "Hop in!"

Isaac starts at the sound. "You don't understand," He says grimly as he begins to pull away.

"What?" She asks confused. "I thought…"

Isaac rests his arms on the roof of the car and leans in to the car. The window frames his face as he explains, "Believe me. You _don't_ want me. No one wants me." He brushes his rain soaked hair out of his eyes and gives her a sad, lopsided smile that sears his face into her memory. "You see, I'm just saving you the trouble of finding that out."

"Wait! I think you should let me make my own decision about that."

Isaac remembers the panic and terror in Allison's face in the supply closet. Has it only been a few hours since he lost control and almost killed her? His face is grim. "You don't understand. I'm not safe to be around. I'm dangerous."

The woman regains her composure. The conversation is back on what she considers familiar ground. "I like my men a little dangerous." She purrs. "It's part of the excitement."

Isaac looks away. When he turns back and meets her gaze, his eyes transform. The woman is staring into the glowing, yellow eyes of a werewolf. She shrinks back against her door. Isaac pushes himself away from the car. Afraid to look away, the woman fumbles blindly until her hand finds the car's door locks and the control for the power windows. Isaac's eyes fade back to their normal blue as the locks engage and the window closes in his face. He steps back from the curb. The car's engine comes to life and with a clash of gears the Jaguar speeds away into the night. Isaac stands, arms crossed across his chest, looking after the car. Its taillights have vanished into the dark before he turns. A voice stops him as he is about to walk out into the storm once again.

"Hey kid…," Isaac looks around and sees that the man in the ticket booth is no longer ignoring him. He is standing and when Isaac continues to hesitate waves him over.

"Come here."

Isaac walks to the ticket booth. His puzzlement at the request is clear on his face..

"Are you an idiot?" The man snaps.

Isaac takes a step back, surprised by the young man's angry tone. The man is staring at him wide-eyed. His expression is incredulous.

"Do you know what you just did?" The man shakes his head. "You just threw away the golden ticket. I've worked this shift for over a year; and, the way I hear it, _she's_ been cruising this street for longer than that. The word is that she does _lots_ of window shopping but hardly any buying, if you know what I mean?" The older man leers at him. "And you turned her down!"

The man, his face red grips the counter in front of him leans toward Isaac. His forehead presses against the glass of the booth and his breath fogs the glass as he shouts, "Are you fucking gay?"

"What? No, I'm not gay. I…" Isaac doesn't know what to say or if he should explain anything. "I'm not a hustler either."

The man looks him over. He takes in Isaac's soaked clothes, his bedraggled appearance from his walk through the storm, the lack of a coat, his duffle slung across his shoulder and scoffs. He slumps back onto his stool.

"Yeah, sure kid. But that woman, she's not just some rich broad looking to buy herself some young meat." The man leans forward and his voice becomes conspiratorial.

"This guy I know told me that she's not looking for one-night stands. She clicks with a 'date' and they stay around for a while. The way I hear it, one guy stayed with her for six months. Six months, kid, and you don't even have a dry place to flop tonight!" He snickers. "And when he left - she got him a scholarship at UCBH!"

Isaac listens impassively as the man tells his story. When Isaac doesn't respond, the man in the ticket booth leans back on his stool and considers him.

"Hmmm. Nothing? That's all you got, nothing? I don't understand you, kid. Do you even have an idea of a place to go tonight?"

"No," Isaac answers slowly. "But I'm not a whore. I won't sell myself for a warm bed. I'm better than that."

"Sure, kid, keep telling yourself that." The man laughs and, picking up his phone, resumes his game. The street kid in front of him is no longer of interest to him.

Isaac wears a thoughtful expression as leaves the shelter of the theater's marquee and walks back into the storm. The wind and the rain lash his back; his stomach rumbles again. The young man hopes the diner the woman mentioned is on this street. He is really hungry.

The wind swirls around the boy. It almost seems happy that he is once again on the move. It pushes Isaac relentlessly eastward toward the hills and forest. If it has a destination in mind for him, the young wolf wishes it wouldn't be so fucking cryptic.


	3. Chapter 3

Storm Child

A bell tinkles above the door of The Midtown Diner. Isaac Lahey stands dripping and shivering beneath it. He swipes at the water running into his face. This may not be the diner Jaguar lady meant; but the smells coming from the kitchen are heavenly. His stomach rumbles loudly and insistently. He's not going back out into the storm until he's eaten something.

A long counter extends the length of the narrow building. Stools covered in red vinyl line the counter. Booths, upholstered in the same red vinyl, hug the outside, windowed wall. The windows rattle as rain beats against them. The room is empty except for a waitress. She is filling salt and pepper shakers at the other end of the restaurant.

Isaac hesitates. The wall behind the counter is mirrored and he can see water running off him and his duffel. He takes a step off the mat but pauses when the waitress calls out to him.

"Come on in, Honey. I'm sure we can squeeze one more in." She laughs at her own joke as she gestures to the empty restaurant. "Find yourself a seat. I'll be with you in a sec."

When he still doesn't move, she adds, "Don't worry about a little water." Isaac, watching a pool of water form at his feet, thinks that is not an accurate description of the situation.

"The dishwasher will take care of it."

"Sam, I heard that!" A man's, deep voice rumbles out through the window to the kitchen.

The waitress rolls her eyes as she yells back at him, "I intended you to, Tom."

The woman walking toward him is in her thirties, he guesses. She is pretty, with a good figure that fills out her dark blue uniform very nicely. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a braid. Her only makeup is lipstick. She is, Isaac thinks, hot.

Isaac smiles shyly at her, embarrassed by the mess he's making. The waitress arches an eyebrow as she approaches. She can't decide if this kid is trying to play her or is really as adorable as he seems. At any rate, he should make the time pass more enjoyably as she waits for the late rush to arrive. He is, she knows, too young for her. However, if anyone that young and cute wants to flirt with an "old" woman of 30, she is not going to object.

She sees his indecision. His eyes travel from the floor to the pass-through window to the kitchen. The waitress nods toward the kitchen. "Don't mind Tom. If he wasn't complaining about something he'd be dead." There is a loud, harrumphing sound from the kitchen which causes the young woman to laugh. She waits patiently for Isaac to make a decision.

Isaac finally steps the rest of the way off the mat. He cringes at the squeaking sounds his wet shoes make on the linoleum as he walks to a stool. The boy chooses a seat at the counter almost at the end of the diner. With his wolf hearing, he can hear the waitress's soft sigh. She probably hoped that he'd pick a seat that wouldn't require her to walk so far.

He risks a look to check her expression as he unslings his duffel and sits down at the counter. The boy is surprised to see that her smile hasn't changed. It's still a warm and friendly one. Isaac thinks that it must be genuine and not just professional. He's sorry if she has to walk further to serve him but he wants to sit by himself. The restaurant may be empty now but if more customers arrive he doesn't want to be near the door. People will have to make an effort to sit by him. In his present sodden condition he thinks that's unlikely. Food is what he wants – not conversation.

The boy is barely seated before Sam stands in front of him. Her thousand watt smile warms the night for him. The steaming pot of coffee in her hand promises to do the same for the inner wolf. The name badge on her uniform reads Samantha.

"Hey, I'm Samantha." She gestures at her name tag. "But everyone calls me Sam. Coffee?" The expression on his face must be pathetic because she smiles as she pours. "Do you take anything in it, Hon?"

Isaac spots the sugar dispenser and pulls it toward him. "Cream?" He asks hesitantly. More water has dribbled down his forehead and he has to wipe it out of his eyes.

"Coming up."

She walks down the counter to fetch him his cream and his eyes follow her in, he tells himself, a completely natural, non-lascivious way. His first impression was correct, she is hot. The waitress is back soon with a pitcher of cream from the cooler. She sets the little ceramic cow in front of him and hands him the menu she carries under her arm. Isaac cringes under her intense, thoughtful expression.

The young wolf wonders if she has decided she doesn't want a half-drowned, street rat sitting at her counter. But then she surprises him by bending down to open a cupboard behind the counter. Isaac does _not_ check her out while she is bent over. When she straightens up she lays a couple of counter towels in front him.

"It's a wet night out there, Hon. The restroom doors…" She nods to her left. "…have locks if you want to get cleaned up." She gives him a friendly smile as she pats the towels in front of her for emphasis. Just let me finish my prep work and I'll be back to get your order."

She returns to the salt and pepper shakers at the other end of the restaurant. Once again Isaac's eyes follow her as she walks away.

The towels sit on the counter in front of him. The waitress acted as though her act of kindness was a perfectly normal thing to do. Isaac can't imagine why she'd do this for him. He finally decides that her generosity is a mystery he can't solve. Reaching down for his duffel, he sweeps the towels off the counter and makes his way back to the men's restroom.

When he returns he has changed into dry clothes and his hair is dry but wildly curly from the rain. He's warmer and he would feel much better about the night if the rain that still beats against the windows of the diner would only stop. He didn't grab a jacket when Derek threw him out and he knows he will be drenched again as soon as he steps outside. But for now he will just enjoy being warm and dry.

Isaac sits back down at the counter. He stares at the menu lying in front of him. It reminds him that he caught a hint of something, indecision maybe, in the waitress's face when she passed it to him. She's done him one immense favor already but he's been mistaken for a hustler twice tonight. He opens his wallet and takes out a soggy twenty dollar bill and lays it in front of him on the counter. Isaac feels better now. When she returns for his order she'll see that he's not looking for a handout or a warm spot to hang out of the storm.

Finished with her chores at the other end of the diner, Samantha returns with a glass of water, a place setting, and the ever present coffee pot. She arranges his silverware in front of him, moving the twenty dollar bill out of her way as she sets his place. Isaac has made his point. But if he expects a reaction from her to the money, he doesn't get one.

"Know what you want, Sweetie?" She pours him more coffee and leans back against the counter behind her. Sam waits patiently for her young customer to say something.

Isaac squirms under her friendly but serious consideration. He looks down at the menu, which he hasn't opened, and finds himself unable to take any action more complicated than stirring sugar and cream into his coffee.

"There are a lot of choices." He answers vaguely. He grips the mug with both hands as he brings it to his mouth. Steam swirls around his face.

"Hard day?" She asks with a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, I know. It's practically a book. Well, we're about half way between dinner and breakfast. You can go either way. Do you have a preference?"

Isaac stares at her blankly. She chuckles and picks up the menu. "I guess that means you want me to choose." The boy nods gratefully. The waitress taps her lips with a pen before pulling an order book out of the pocket of her uniform. "Do you like eggs?" A weak smile from Isaac causes her to nod decisively and begin writing in her book.

"Good! Sophia is a magician when it comes to omelets," She looks over her shoulder toward the window to the kitchen. "Say hello to our cute, young customer, Sophia." Isaac feels a blush heat up his face and stares down into his cup.

"Pryvit!"

His head comes up. The fingers of a small hand that barely reach above the ledge of the pass-through window waggle at him.

"She's Ukrainian." Louise explains.

"We'll need one of your _special_ omelets, Sophia." Sam studies him. He is hunched over his coffee cradling the mug as though it is a life preserver and it's the only thing keeping him afloat.

"Biscuits out of the oven yet, Hon?" Isaac smiles as a heavily accented 'five minutes' comes out of the window. "Give me a couple, please." Sam finishes writing, turns and hangs his ticket on the order wheel. "It'll be a couple of minutes," she offers with a mock serious tone. "You may have noticed how busy we are tonight."

Isaac, going along with the joke, turns and surveys the empty seats that surround him. He arches an eyebrow. The waitress laughs. "This weather's been lousy for business tonight. But the place will start filling up in…" She turns and looks at the clock on the wall over her shoulder. "…about an hour. That's when the bars start closing."

"You need a refill?" Glancing down at his mug, she pauses, coffee pot in hand, waiting for some sign from him. He waves her and the coffee toward him.

"The boss hates to see customers with an empty coffee cup." She explains. "I'll keep asking until you tell me enough or float away."

She looks out at the rain still falling heavily outside. "From the looks of things we might all float away before this night is over. I've never seen such weird weather." She checks his cow, making sure he still has cream, and then leans back against the wall. The night is dead; the restaurant is ready for the night's customers; and she's curious about the handsome young man who wandered through her door.

"All sorts of folks come downtown for Sophia's breakfasts or for her pies." She points to a revolving dessert case in the center of the diner. Its multiple levels are filled with heroic slices of all kinds of cream and fruit pies. "They're amazing."

Samantha continues proudly, "On the weekends after the theaters close or the Performing Arts Center has an event, you can see everything from hoodies to tuxedoes, politically incorrect furs to our local ladies of the night in their finery. It's a hoot, seeing them sitting cheek by jowl at the counter."

Isaac sees her eyes go to something outside the diner. Still smiling, the waitress turns and casually sweeps the now used and soggy towels off the counter and deposits them into a hamper.

The young woman is returning the coffee pot to its hotplate when the bell over the door announces the arrival of more customers. She looks toward the door and Isaac sees her smile slip momentarily before being replaced by what, Isaac now knows, must be her professional waitress smile. He knew she had to have one. This smile is thinner and there's no twinkle in her eye as she prepares to greet her new customers.

Isaac wonders what she saw in him, a wet mutt from the streets, which caused his different reception. It makes no sense to him. Hoping to solve this mystery, Isaac, who is still hunched over his cup, sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye to see who has this different effect on his waitress.


	4. Chapter 4

Storm Child

Five kids mill around in the entrance to the Midtown Diner removing their rain gear. There are two couples who appear to be Isaac's age. They are talking and laughing as they jostle each other for room. A boy who must be, Isaac guesses, someone's younger brother stands apart. His expression is distant as he shrugs off his duster and shakes the water from it. Isaac watches as one of the older boys intentionally elbows him in the back as he removes his own coat. The younger boy staggers and glares at the elbow wielder who ignores him. The boy's face is sour as he surveys his surroundings and the antics of his companions. Isaac smiles at the size of the puddle that has formed on the floor around them. The dishwasher is going to have to get out his mop and bucket again.

The girls complain loudly, to the amusement of their dates, about the water the boys are getting on their outfits. Getting no sympathy from them, they flounce away. One girl asks the waitress where the restroom is and Samantha points past Isaac to the end of the diner. The girls are cute and Isaac follows them in the mirror as they pass. They walk past him chattering animatedly. Isaac hears them giggle. He can feel his face burning and checks himself out in the mirror. The only good thing he can say about his appearance is that he no longer looks half drowned. His clothes, however, look like they had been wadded into a ball before he put them on. This is, he recalls, a pretty accurate description of how he'd packed his duffel in his haste to leave Derek's loft. He stares into his coffee and wishes invisibility was a werewolf talent.

The girls' dates trail along after them. They pad across the room smugly confident in their superiority and take the booth just past where Isaac is sitting. The boys are both tall, with short, blondish hair and both are wearing shirts that look to be a size too small for them. They are muscular in the way that guys are who spend more quality time working on their six-packs than they do on their homework. Isaac is suspicious of them on sight.

Jocks or wannabes, he decides. Isaac would have once said like Jackson except he knows too much about that boy's pain and insecurities to make that comparison now. That he, Isaac Lahey, former grave digger and bottom feeder to the likes of these two, is a jock now he thinks is hilarious.

The fifth wheel is small and skinny. Isaac thinks he might be 14. He falls into the booth next to them and slides across the bench until his back is pressed up against the window. He dons earbuds and closes his eyes. Dressed all in black from his t-shirt to his boots, he appears unconcerned that muddy water from his boots is running onto the cushion. His black, leather duster is tossed onto the other bench of the booth.

Samantha stops at the boys' table to drop off water and menus. The guys order coffees for themselves and their dates. When it's his turn the kid has to pull his earbuds out to hear the waitress. He wants Red Bull but grumpily settles for Mountain Dew.

The volume of conversation amps up when the girls return to the table. The young wolf listens as the kids, still hyped from their experience, excitedly rehash the details of the show they just left. Isaac wonders if it was in the warehouse where he and the rest of the pack tried to trap the Kanima. Good times, he thinks, if you ignore the panic, fear and near death experience. It was located in the warehouse district near here.

The young werewolf watches the couples surreptitiously in the mirror. He realizes with disgust that he envies them. Their happiness and obvious friendship makes his sense of abandonment feel more total. He's an Omega now, a packless wolf. Too new to the whole werewolf thing to know exactly what that means, he only knows that it feels like Derek ripped a part of him out when he discarded him.

Isaac's nose twitches and he smiles down into his coffee. The unmistakable, sweet odor of marijuana drifts over to him from the kids' table. He wonders if they know how that odor clings to their clothes. If their parents aren't totally clueless, he thinks the four of them will know it before this night is over though.

His smile slowly morphs into a puzzled frown. There is a different, acrid, chemical odor also present in the air that the marijuana mostly masks. Curious, Isaac takes a deeper breath. The lining of his nose burns and he rubs his finger under his nose to hold off a sneeze. He breathes through his mouth until the burning sensation passes.

Taking a second, cautious breath he realizes the smell is coming from the "fifth wheel." Isaac's eyes go to the mirror in front of him. The young wolf studies the boy sitting by himself. His face is thin and pasty under the fluorescent lights of the diner. His paleness is accentuated by black, shoulder length hair that frames his face. Its color is more like that of shoe polish than a person's. Isaac guesses that this is not its original color. The kid's body vibrates to the music coming from his earbuds.

The odd odor coming off the boy suddenly spikes catching Isaac's attention. The boy has pulled out the earbuds and is sporting a mean, cunning expression. Isaac watches him rise onto his knees and drape himself over the back of the adjoining booth. The boy and girl sitting on the bench in front of him slide apart to make room for him. He is talking rapidly and seems oblivious to his invasion of the personal space of the couple sitting in the next booth. All of the kid's attention is centered on the girl. Her date is scowling angrily at the back of the boy's head.

Isaac watches Sam approach their table. She pours coffee for the two couples and takes their orders. Moving on to the boy's booth, she places his drink on the table and waits patiently. His back is to her. He ignores her presence. The smile she flashed his friends a moment ago changes into a stern expression.

"You need to turn around and sit down in your seat, son."

The boy pays no attention to the waitress and continues to talk.

"Dylan!" The girl sitting across the table from him leans forward. She directs an irritated frown at the kid.

"Whaaat?" He whines not taking his eyes off the girl next to him.

"Do what the waitress says. Sit down and stop acting like a brat. She needs you to order."

"It's not me, Sis. She's the one with a problem. I thought we came here for service – not attitude. I don't get what the bitch's problem is."

"Dylan! Apologize!"

Dylan throws a bored look over his shoulder at the woman standing next to him. "Yeah, sorry." He doesn't try to sound sincere.

"Dylan, turn around and sit down. Now!" His sister gestures with her hand that he should turn around. When he continues to ignore her, she brings out the nuclear option. "Do what the lady says or I'll tell Dad."

"Yeah. Whatever." He pouts.

Turning slowly he sinks down onto the bench and continues to slide down until only his head is above the table. The boy looks up at the waitress who seems tempted to say something but refrains.

"Don't worry. My sister will make sure her boyfriend gives you a big tip, mam." Dylan's head tilts up. "Won't you, Katie?"

"Can I kill him for you, Katie?" The girl's date offers. Listening and watching this play out behind him, the young werewolf is puzzled by the undertone of malice he hears in the older boy's joke. It's excessive and sounds half serious. Isaac wonders if the boy's date can hear it.

"I'm sure I could make it look like an accident." He continues and shoots a look at the boy across the table from him. "Forrest, you'll help?" The young man, whose space Dylan has been invading, gives an emphatic nod. His face is still dark with anger.

Katie gives her date a sharp look as she shakes her head "no." She sighs theatrically and gives the waitress a what-can-you-do-with-a-little-brother look. "I'm really sorry, Miss." The apology sounds sincere to Isaac. Her embarrassment at her brother's behavior is obvious.

Slouched down in his booth studying his menu, her brother does not see the scowl she directs in his direction. "Dylan's not usually such a pain. At least not to strangers - anyway. I don't know what's gotten into him."

With a semblance of peace restored to the diner, Sam takes the kid's order. His responses to her are clipped but not obviously rude. Finished with the two tables she walks back behind the counter. Isaac sees her look his way and rolls his eyes. She nods back at him. Her lips are pressed tightly together as she walks into the kitchen.

The kid pulls his cellphone out again. The boy's face is twisted into a sour mask as he jabs at his phone angrily. Isaac can see that his eyes have been following the waitress and noted that she left the floor.

Isaac listens as Katie explains to her friends, "It wasn't my idea. Dylan's only with me tonight because Mom said I had to bring him if I wanted to go. I'm sorry, guys. Mom forgot to get him a sitter."

Her brother bounces up on to his knees and faces his sister. His face is furious. "That's a lie. She never said that. I don't need a babysitter." His face flushed, Dylan growls at his sister, "Shut up, cunt."

Isaac gives up pretending he's not listening to their conversation. He swivels around on his stool and grimaces as a cloud of the sour odor rolling off the boy hits him in the face. Dylan's sister grabs her date's arm as he starts to rise and pulls him back down beside her.

The girl stares at her brother in disbelief. "Dylan! What's wrong with you tonight? You've been acting weird ever since we left the concert."

"Nothing's wrong with me, sis. In fact, I've never felt better." The boy's face relaxes into a sly smile. He reaches out and grabs the back of the seat and pulls himself across the bench until he is now behind his sister's girlfriend. The girl's face wrinkles in distaste. She leans away from him but he reaches out and takes a strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers.

"You've got nice hair, Becky."

Becky tries to pull away from him but the boy's hand closes around her hair, holding her in place. She winces and looks back over her shoulder as his grip tightens. Her date rises from his seat and is coming over the back of the booth after him but stops abruptly as a metallic click cuts through the sound of rain striking the diner's windows.


End file.
